


And Taste Your Skin

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-26 23:41:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1706846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos lifts his eyebrows at Athos and nods his head towards Aramis.  “Well?  You gonna watch or you gonna give the man what he wants?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Taste Your Skin

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt "kisses in odd places" which of course in my mind meant "rimming" - because I realized that despite recently realizing I like this kink, I've never actually written it. 
> 
> Anyway, still working my way through a writer's block so apologies for any awkward language in this. I may come back later to edit it, once I'm in a better writing mood.

“Hmmmm,” Porthos murmurs, all heavy and sweaty along Athos’ back. Arm looped around Athos’ waist, he’s thumbing slowly down the slick cleft between Aramis’ legs, who sighs and whines appreciatively at each touch, as he often does. Oil shines and spreads along Aramis’ body and across Porthos’ fingertips as he rubs against Aramis, teasing at him, never breeching him with his fingers but threatening to do so, and Aramis whines and hitches his breath at the touches, overly-sensitive from where Athos had just come. And Athos himself makes a soft sound of protest when Porthos’ thick thumb presses inside of Aramis, easy and loose, and Aramis sighs out, content, arching up and rocking his hips a little as Porthos presses his thumb in and then withdraws it, slicked with Athos’ come. 

If there was one thing Athos can say about being with Aramis and Porthos, it’s that the two are both completely shameless and absolutely insatiable at any given opportunity. Athos is hardly a prude by any means, but sometimes it just completely flummoxes him how the two are able to recover so quickly and go right after finishing, while Athos feels like he’s going to pass out from the aftermath of prolonged pleasure. It could very well be the excess amount of wine they drink during these encounters, though – it’s hard to say. 

Voicing such thoughts usually just results in Porthos smiling at him good-naturedly and Aramis laughing and then saying something foolish like _you’re just far too grim even during this, darling_. Which Athos isn’t necessarily dismissing outright, if only because he recognizes that lingering gentleness in Aramis’ voice, that soft reminder that it’s alright to live and take what he desires – but it’s still a little overwhelming when they can coax an orgasm from him several times a night when he’s grown used to a rather solitary lifestyle. Still, Aramis is quick to tease and goad Athos into at least a small sliver of a smile and then a delighted _See, was that so difficult, darling?_ while Porthos rolls his eyes in exasperated fondness. 

“No more,” Aramis whines now, which Athos thinks must be a first, and presses his face deep against his pillow. Athos clenches his hand on Aramis’ thigh to keep his body in place and still for Porthos’ hot and messy little touches, dragging his thumb along the cleft, then shifting his hand to cup one cheek, squeezing and sweeping it down, dragging his knuckles down hard into his thigh, a shadow of a massage as he kneads into his thigh. 

“Tired?” Porthos asks, and there’s that familiar teasing in his voice. “Never thought I’d see the day, you insatiable tease.” 

“Maybe not ‘no more’, then,” Aramis relents, and lifts his head from his pillow to look up over his shoulder at the two of them, grinning impishly. “Maybe just a little more?” 

Porthos groans appreciatively against Athos’ back and Athos sighs out, watching as Porthos pushes his thumb back in deep inside Aramis, up to his knuckle.

“You look so good,” he whispers and Athos has to nod, still feeling too struck dumb to actually speak the words or do much of anything other than watch the way Porthos teases and plays with Aramis as if it were second-nature. Thus was their dynamic, really, and it honestly shouldn’t surprise Athos anymore, now that they’ve decided to include him in their little escapades. 

At first it’d taken him by surprise, for about two seconds, before he’d relented to himself that, really, it wasn’t much of a surprise that their easy friendship could extend to knowing every inch of one another. Athos was not one for jealousies or inadequacies, at least in this manner of things, and never once considered that they’d somehow left him out while they pressed together behind closed doors. He’d never think such a thing, since his friendship with the two of them was something he’d die to protect, something he’d never take for granted. 

When he’d expressed as much, they’d both looked relieved, and it was only then that he’d realized just how vulnerable this moment had been for them – to include him, to invite him to know this side of them, too – and then they’d both grinned, first at each other and then at him, twin looks of joy and adoration that had left Athos speechless. 

And Aramis had said, simply, “It’d always felt like you were missing.” 

And he understood from then on that he’d never have to spend a night alone if they didn’t want to. Especially since his two friends, for all intents and purposes, seemed perfectly keen on sleeping together as long as they had a free moment – and their various women weren’t accounted for. 

He understands it fully, in the way that Porthos and Aramis seem so easily caught up in one another, and yet never seem to forget him – always seeming to spark to life when they turn to look at him, Aramis smiling at him softly, Porthos saying his name like it’s a prayer – and Athos never, ever, has his moments to doubt himself or either of them, when they take him like he’s something precious and worthwhile, like he isn’t about to fall apart with just a breath. He thrives beneath their gaze, feels, if only for half a moment, or a full moment when locked in their embrace, that he could live up to be what it is they see in him, that he could be the person they believe he already is. It weighs down heavy on him, but never in a constricting way, but rather an enveloping, peaceful kind of way. Something to build up to, perhaps – someday. 

Like now, like the way Aramis arches beneath him, full of Athos’ come, shivering with delight at Porthos’ touch, with Athos between them, Athos feeling the splatter of Porthos’ come across his lower back, feeling the heavy, familiar weight of him against his back, his free hand tracing over his stomach absently, brushing down the trail of hair leading from belly button to cock. In these moments, he feels both weightless and weighted, and it’s exactly that he wants, to feel like he is at peace, all the way down to his bloodstream and thundering heartbeat slowing down between their gentle touches. 

“Fuck,” Porthos breathes against Athos’ ear, smiling down at Aramis. “You look so good, Aramis. Tell me what you want.” 

A constant question from Porthos – taking great pleasure in giving both Aramis and Athos what they ask for – and Aramis, playing coy as always, merely batting his eyelashes and smiling playfully up at the two of them, voice always so sweet when he asks for the both of them to fuck him, in the same place, or at both ends, or to hold him down and fuck him hard, or to cradle him after he’s begged for it. Aramis, above all else, is decidedly needy, always delighting in being held down and controlled in these moments. And like now, he arches up, weight on his elbows as he looks at Porthos gently over his shoulder, hair mushed and a complete mess, framing his face. 

“Clean me up?” he asks, eyes twinkling, and Athos isn’t entirely sure what he could mean, because Porthos is sliding two fingers inside of him rather than his thumb, and it’s clear from the appreciative moan that Aramis gives him that he isn’t looking to end the night’s festivities. 

Somehow, impossibly, he feels Porthos’ cock stir against the fold of his hip, and Athos really does have to admire his stamina, even if he’s also just as likely to collapse and start snoring once they’re done for an evening. He helps it along by thrusting back shallowly against Porthos, who grunts softly and shifts to meet him, rolling his hips and sliding into the cleft of his arse, rutting a little, and Athos’ own cock is getting involved again, nudging a little against Aramis’ thigh. 

Aramis huffs out a laugh at that, giving Athos a wicked smile which quickly dissolves to an open-mouth gasp as Porthos thrusts his fingers up hard inside him and pulls back, and Athos watches, only half-comprehending, as he lifts his fingers to his mouth and sucks them in, cleaning them off of Athos’ come. 

Aramis turns over and jars Athos’ arm off, giving him a soft look, the kind that tends to disarm Athos. 

“Want to watch?” Porthos mumbles as he licks along the back of Athos’ neck – his mouth always feels good, and it’s distracting to Athos enough that he doesn’t quite hear what Porthos is saying. He watches Aramis’ cock plump up again between his legs, hard and thick against his flat belly. 

Athos closes his eyes against the intense desire that sparks through him (they know, those grinning fools, they know how much he likes to watch, how just that alone can get him undone). The force of his desire, as always, leaves him feeling the familiar and unpleasant spark of shame – that he is somehow undeserving of their time, attention, and devotion, no matter how often they’ve told him and shown him their loyalty and love. Regardless, he turns his head, not blushing (for he does not blush), but awkward and uncertain in his movements. 

Thankfully for him, his own inability to express his inner thoughts rarely deters Porthos and Aramis, who know how to read him. In many ways, he has always been an open book to them – and he is only thankful that, plain as day as he may seem, they still provide their understanding and space, allowing him to open himself to them in a way that suits him, rather than demanding it of him. All men have their secrets, Porthos once said, and things they want to forget. They’ve never forced him to do anything he hasn’t wanted – only gently remind him that he wants it at all.

Or not so gently, as their usual tactic consists mostly of manhandling him and fondling him until he’s hard enough to forget much of anything other than the slick slide of Aramis’ skin and the bunching grip of Porthos’ hair. Aramis nudges his nose gently against Athos’ jaw when he turns away, and slides around his front and throws a leg over Athos’ lap, straddles him efficiently while Porthos presses up against his back, closing his arms around his chest, fingertips tracing down his front, touching at faint scars he knows by memory of touch more than strict observation. It’s a curse, really, his seemingly endless attraction to the two of them, and it’s with that curse that he feels helpless but to grip at Aramis’ waist, and wants to bury his fingers deep into Porthos’ hair, drag along the jaw and down across his throat. 

“Don’t be shy,” Aramis says, warm and teasing, and Athos opens his mouth to protest that he is not _shy_ in these matters, but Aramis isn’t listening, mouthing at Athos’ cheekbone and jaw. “Come on, Athos. Watch him clean me up.” 

Athos tries to speak, but when the words don’t come, Porthos shifts closer against him, cups him by his throat, palm against his pulsing adam’s apple and gently tilts it back so it rests against his shoulder. Their eyes meet and there’s a quiet gentleness – and Athos has always found it so interesting, how quickly Porthos will take Aramis apart, movements rough and direct, and yet with him he is always gentle and soothing, hands cradling him as if he will break. And where Aramis is teasing and gentle with Porthos, touching each of his scars as if it’s a prayer, with Athos his hands drag, fired and blistering in his pursuit of Athos’ pleasure, pulling him apart piece by piece as if he was made to make Athos weak. And yet, between the two, there’s always that moment of suspension, in which they look at him and do not see a broken, suffering man, but rather someone worth knowing and worth protecting – Porthos, who holds him gently, and Aramis, who rattles him back into himself. 

“Like you would on my cock,” Aramis whispers, all hot lips and wet breath on Athos’ ear now, smiling against the curve of it. “He’ll use his tongue and his lips and kiss and lick me there, push his tongue inside and tease me.” Aramis pulls back a little, eyes falling to Porthos, too, as he speaks, who kisses absently along Athos’ other cheek and jaw. Aramis’ eyes are warm as he watches Porthos, breath hot against Athos’ ear. “Maybe before he puts his cock inside me, he’d use his mouth to make sure I’m all ready for him, make it so easy for me, Athos. Or after, like now, he could lick circles around me and fuck me open all over again, clean me up and tasting you inside of me.” 

Aramis is heaving against him – he’s touching in that fast, careless way he does when he needs to be taken to bed immediately, when all he wants is for Porthos or Athos to speak back to him, to take what they want, to defile him, to be fucked until he can’t speak. Porthos is breathing out had behind him, hand tracing along Athos’ throat and over his collar, touching him lightly, almost sweetly, a strange juxtaposition to the whispering breath of Aramis’ voice. 

“Yeah,” Porthos whispers against his ear now, nibbling on it as Aramis kisses along his jaw, smiling wickedly, eyes shining. “Yeah,” Porthos says quieter still, his breath a quiet promise, “Or you could do it – you don’t have to just watch. I could use my fingers to spread him and you could just fuck him with your tongue right now, and you know he’d just come apart for you. You like it when he does that, don’t you? When he tells you exactly what he wants, exactly what he likes. He’s so responsive, our Aramis, isn’t he?” 

Athos groans at about the same time Aramis does, and Aramis ruts against him, squirming and rocking in Athos’ lap, even though his eyes are on Porthos. He nods, hair falling in his eyes for a moment as he arches up, _keening_ for it. “Fuck, Porthos – Athos. I want it, I want it…” 

Aramis scrambles off of Athos and bears down on Porthos, nearly slamming his knee into Athos for his troubles. And then Porthos actually kicks Athos in his attempts to not get crushed by an overly enthusiastic Aramis, laughing, and Athos has to roll his eyes as Porthos manhandles Aramis, shoving him down onto his back so he’s sprawled out across the mattress, heaving and staring up at Porthos as he gets a good grip on Aramis’ legs, right behind each knee, and folds those long, stupidly gorgeous legs of his back so far that Aramis’ body curls up and he can’t even writhe well – which he so loves to do – but seems to sigh happily at how nicely he’s held, Porthos waggling his eyebrows at him in that teasing way he always does when the two of them are involved. Legs spread and lifted off the bed, Aramis arches and reaches up, grasping his one hand around the bedpost and the other fisting in the sheets as Porthos bites down along his inner thigh, eliciting and a pleased moan from Aramis. 

Where normally Porthos proceeds with a kind of startling efficiency, sometimes in direct retaliation to Aramis’ insistence at teasing, instead he moves slowly, looking at Athos as he moves, showing him – moving with purposeful care so Athos can watch it all. Aramis moans above them as Porthos reaches up, curling one hand around his hair and dragging him in for a sloppy, insistent kiss – to which Athos absolutely melts and sighs out, returning it with precise care even as he feels he’ll come apart with only that, taking great care and attention into the general proceedings. 

Porthos leans in, giving Aramis a long, sloppy lick, eyes meeting Athos’ as he moves back, nodding his head a little to draw Athos in closer. Athos reaches up, grasping one of Aramis’ legs to keep it in place, leaning in to kiss along the skin there, lingering along his thigh, watching Porthos. Porthos grins at him and then settles into the role of tease with relative delight, placing simple kisses along Aramis’ skin and then follows it with a small darting lick from the tip of his tongue just around the edges, smiling when Aramis makes his responding, keening whimpers. He makes an unnaturally high sound in his throat and writhes, but Porthos and Athos hold him in place easily and Porthos glances up at Athos, eyebrows lifting. Athos nods for him to go on, already heavy with desire from just watching. 

“ _Yes_ ,” Aramis whines out and shudders as Porthos works him, deliberately slow – just enough to drive Aramis wild, tugging hard on the sheets and arching, trying to writhe and move more only to be restrained by the two of them. 

“Like it?” Athos asks, shifting his attention from Porthos, who pushes in deep with his tongue, licking along happily, and up to Aramis, who is panting to the ceiling, alternating between staring up at it in a silent kind of mercy and angling his head to watch the two of them. His eyes slant up to meet Athos when he speaks and he nods eagerly. Athos allows himself to smile, almost giddy with it even if it doesn’t appear on his face. “Tell me.”

“I like it,” Aramis moans. “I _really_ like it, Athos. God, I love it.” 

His eyes are heavy-lidded as he looks up at Athos, as if it is Athos who’s bent down between his legs and not Porthos, who’s paused in his ministrations to look up at Athos with an unbidden and blatant look of adoration and pleasure. 

Athos feels on edge, still so unused to such levels of desire, and keeps his tone to a drawl, sounding bored as he smoothes a shaking hand along Aramis’ thigh, pinning it up further and spreading him for Porthos.

“Tell me,” Athos says, tone light and uninterested, even though he feels heavy with his complete overwhelming interest. He knows how much Aramis likes it, though, when he keeps his voice neutral like this (he’d once whispered to his ear that it makes it all the more worth it when Athos comes apart in his orgasm, voice wavering and hitched for just him and Porthos). 

Aramis smiles at him, closing his eyes as Porthos’ hands smooth over his sweat-damp skin and he keens again, arching and squirming as Porthos presses in deeper with his tongue. He drops one hand down to tangle in Porthos’ hair, the touch easy and loving, and Porthos doesn’t even pause in his movements even though Athos can see the curl of his smile.

“Pull my hair?” Aramis asks, looking up at Athos with undisguised devotion. Athos is helpless but to obey him, reaching his free hand up and pulling sharply on his hair. Aramis sighs out happily and his hips shudder. “God – I love it, Athos. He feels so good. He’s so good.” He pulls on Porthos’ hair, a little sharper than perhaps intended because Porthos grunts and pulls back, giving him a look – to which Aramis only smiles apologetically, expression warm and open. “Sorry. You get me so wound up, love, you can hardly hold it against me – look at how desperate I am for you.” Porthos smiles and rolls his eyes good naturedly, and licks along the base of his cock for the sake of difference and Aramis’ mouth falls open in a beautifully begging smile, turning to grin wickedly at Athos. “I’m so desperate for him, Athos. But I get to have both of you – aren’t I lucky?” 

“Very,” Athos murmurs, and wonders how it is that he’s become so lucky as to have two in his life who consider themselves fortunate to hold him, as if he is something worthy. He pulls on Aramis’ hair, lightly, just to elicit the responding gasp of pleasure. “Tell me more.” 

“Oh,” Aramis breathes out, arching when Porthos returns to sucking and licking down along his cleft, making him bite his lip to hold back the louder moans and noises. “Oh, I love it when he does this – when he pushes in as far as he can go just to get me to squirm and then licks along my thighs like he’s trying to be a tease. But you know our Porthos, his level of teasing is still rather to-the-point in comparison to what I can do. But,” he adds quickly before Porthos can protest, sliding his fingers through his hair, “he’s so very talented and handsome, I have no choice but to beg for him to keep going and to fuck me harder. I love it when you get rough. The both of you.” 

“Yes,” Athos agrees, and pulls on his hair a second time. 

“Can you taste Athos?” he asks Porthos, playing with his hair until he glances up at him, smiling with his eyes in a way that makes Aramis’ expression soften. “I think he can,” he tells Athos, who nods, fascinated. They both watch Porthos work for a moment, who just smiles more at the attention and renews his efforts to get Aramis to make his high, keening whimpers again. He wriggles his tongue, rubbing and back and forth quickly, adding force slowly – Athos can see it with the flex of his jaw and the way Aramis cries out, arching. “Oh, Porthos…” 

Porthos works his tongue inside again, hooking it when he gets in deep enough and drawing back out to loosen Aramis up all over again. Aramis is noisy above them and Athos slowly reaches out and curls his fingers around his cock, stroking once, almost lazily, if only because he knows what sounds he can draw from Aramis when he does so. Aramis cries out when he does that, just as Porthos finally drives in completely, tongue deep and mouth open in a deep, filthy kiss that makes Athos’ stomach knot up with desire and affection as Aramis tries to physically twist himself up – held down by Porthos’ strong hands and Athos’ steady grip. 

And then Porthos draws back with a sharp breath, sitting up on one elbow to grin at Athos, and Athos can see the remnants of his come from inside of Aramis now on Porthos’ lips and he gives into the desire and leans in, kissing Porthos, licking at his teeth until Porthos kisses him back. 

Aramis is whining above them and when they break apart from the kiss and glance up at him, he’s looking torn between pleasure and pain. 

“No, no,” he says, and manages a small smile as he writhes, desperate and needy. “Come back,” he tells Porthos, tugging on his hair to try to coax him back between his legs. “Don’t stop.” 

“It seems we’ve neglected him,” Athos says, dry. 

Porthos snorts and grins, lifting a hand to play with Athos’ hair. “It was barely a moment away from him, too.” 

“Truly,” Athos says, trying to hold back the betraying smile that threatens to break free. 

“Maybe we should ignore him – teach him a lesson on teasing since he’s so keen on it usually,” Porthos muses aloud, grinning when Aramis whines. 

“ _Please_ ,” he begs, staring between the two of them. “One of you fuck me.” 

Porthos lifts his eyebrows at him and nods his head towards Aramis. “Well? You gonna watch or you gonna give the man what he wants?” 

“He is asking so nicely,” Athos drawls, deadpan, but can’t help but twitch out a small smile when Porthos laughs and Aramis whines. 

Athos hesitates for half a second and then ducks down, settling between Aramis’ legs, ignoring the way Aramis sighs out happily even before he touches him, squirming as Porthos shifts to pin both his legs back for him, spreading him wide. He starts with a tentative kiss, lips only – almost chaste. He pulls back to press kisses to Aramis’ thigh, already red from the scratch of Porthos’ beard and biting kisses. 

“ _Athos_ ,” Aramis moans, rocking his hips up a little, needy and begging. “Just – your mouth, please—”

“So polite,” he hears Porthos say and then Aramis moans, muffled, and Athos knows that they’re kissing from the soft, pleased sounds Aramis makes and the rumbling answers from Porthos. Athos pulls back enough to watch them for a moment.

And then he ducks his head with a deep breath and kisses along his skin, tasting the slightest tang of his own come. Aramis whines appreciatively into the kiss with Porthos. Athos sighs out and steadies himself, then dips out his tongue to touch lightly – tasting the salty-bitterness of his come, then the tang of the oil used to prepare Aramis earlier, to keep him slick and open as Athos fucked him, and he also tastes the headiness of the sex in the air, the way it tastes when Porthos manhandles his mouth down over his cock, or when he sucks on Aramis’ fingers, or when they suckle at his throat like they are dying men and he is their salvation. He digs his tongue deeper and wriggles it inside, feeling Aramis tremble all around him. 

“Yeah,” he hears Porthos say, feels his hands in his hair, holding it back so he can watch him as he dips his tongue in deep to Aramis. “Yeah, perfect. Keep going.”

Athos closes his eyes and a soft, broken sound escapes him, shuddering with the praise. Another hand joins his hair and he knows it’s Aramis, who’s whispering out broken, sweet words to him, a slurring string of sentiment and filth. 

Athos feels overwhelmed with it, his jaw aching, rutting against the mattress himself as he licks carelessly to keep the strange connection between him and Aramis, feeling intensity building with each little movement, glancing up to watch Porthos rutting against Aramis’ hip, Aramis’ hand wrapped around his cock and stroking him off as he pants against Aramis’ neck, watching Athos. And Aramis is watching him, too, biting back his moans and whines but unable to muffle them even a little, and Athos presses in deeper, deep enough that his teeth move against the wet outline of Aramis’ body and watches in quiet fascination as Porthos seizes up and comes first, across Aramis’ stomach and hip, and Aramis seizes up soon after, coming over his hand fisted around his cock as he ruts up shamelessly, throwing his head back and moaning. 

Afterwards, Porthos collapses – as he often does – and curls around Aramis, who is still coming down from his orgasm with soft whines and delighted moans. He beckons for Athos and Athos realizes, distantly, somewhat dizzily, that he has come just from writhing against the bedsheets. 

He regards them with a sleepy kind of muteness, knocked dumb as he often is in the aftermath, unable to find the words he feels are adequate to express how he feels in return, wishing he could wear his love as openly as they do when they look to him. But he knows they understand, knows it by the way that Porthos curls his arms around him and the way Aramis nuzzles happily against his neck, murmuring that he’s perfect in a way that makes Athos almost believe him. They curl up around him, holding him as they often do, and Athos takes care to stroke his hands down Aramis’ back, soothing him from his own aftermath, feeling the way Aramis trembles happily beneath his touch, humming out his name as he suckles around his adam’s apple, hard enough to leave a mark there. Porthos strokes fingers through Aramis’ hair. 

Athos closes his eyes to the pressure behind his eyes, the stirrings of _belonging_ , a feeling that he has always felt between the two of them but is still growing accustomed to himself. He knows that they will hold him safe through the night, and Porthos will even set out a bucket of cold water for his usual morning ritual – and they will be there to watch over him as he pulls himself together all over again, dresses himself up (and perhaps help him dress) and they will walk out into the world together – together and stronger for it.


End file.
